


Special Relationship

by Haro



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drama, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-02-05 13:50:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1820644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haro/pseuds/Haro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short stories about a pair of nations, united in more ways than one. A collection of AmericaxEngland fics spanning many genres.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fic collection I store my shorter USUK fics in. Some of these are quite old (yes I know Gordon Brown is no longer the PM, but he was at the time I wrote it), but I thought that I really ought to post these over here. 
> 
> The first fic is actually new, and it was written for a meme on tumblr where the prompts were Disney song titles.

America poked England’s cheek, a lazy, sleepy smile crossing his face as he did so.

“You were talking in your sleep again last night,” he said, his lips brushing against England’s ear.

England let out a groan and slid his eyes open, unthinkingly throwing his arm to the side and smacking America. “Sorry…”

“About talking in your sleep?” America laughed. “I don’t mind. It’s sort of cute and funny.”

England wrinkled his nose at that. “No I meant for hitting you, you git. And my sleep talk is not there for your amusement!”

America rolled over the rest of the way onto his side and rested his cheek in his hand. “What is it there for then?”

England cleared his throat. “Well… nothing really. It’s just a thing that happens I suppose.” He frowned. “This is a ridiculous conversation.”

“Usually you just talk about strange things in your sleep,” America continued. “Like your imaginary friends or sometimes weird things about France being creepy.”

England placed the back of his hand on his forehead. “Please wake me up next time I say something about France. It’s probably a nightmare after all.”

America snickered. “Will do. Anyway, last night you kept going on and on about how you didn’t want to leave.” His expression turned solemn. “England, I’m not actually that busy the next few days. I can call your boss and we can extend your stay…”

England’s cheeks flushed, much to his dismay. “T-that was probably not what I meant. I’m sure it was just something odd. Dreams are often nonsense after all!”

“America, I don’t want to leave. Can I stay just a bit longer?” America imitated his accent. “It was pretty direct.”

“I… suppose so.” He huffed and crossed his arms. “My flight to go home is at noon.”

Pressing a kiss to England’s temple, America grinned. “Let’s call your boss and change the flight. A dream is a wish your heart makes after all, isn’t it?”

England gave America a light slap on the cheek and smiled. “If it’s that important to you that I stay, then so be it.”

America let out a loud laugh. “Sure, sure. If that’s the way you want to see it.”

England winked at him and grabbed his cellphone from the bedside table.


	2. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America and England wake up one morning in an... interesting situation.

They had no earthly idea why they were even there. All America and England remembered was going to a bar, a haze of activity, and waking up with massive hangovers from hell. In a jailcell. Together. England was laying rather sloppily on America's lap and America was sitting up, his head resting against the cold concrete of the cell. Their heads were pounding so hard as to inhibit much coherent thought.  
  
"What... the fuck," America finally spoke. He looked down at England who was squinting up at him with bleary green eyes. "Did we do something terrible? Heroes don't go to jail."  
  
England scrunched his face. "Whether heroes go to jail or not is the least of our concerns, you idiot." He pushed himself off America's lap, steadying his body with his hands due to an inevitable onslaught of dizziness. "My shirt is ripped." England picked at his tattered white shirt. It barely stayed on his shoulders, torn along the collar it was. "And my sweatervest is missing entirely. How much did we drink"  
  
"So is mine." America frowned, surveying his own garment. "I mean not the sweatervest part. I didn't wear one. Who the hell goes barhopping in a sweatervest?"   
  
"Shut up," England snapped. He paused. "Did we get in a pub brawl?"   
  
America went quiet as he considered it. "Don't see any injuries on you, and I don't feel sore anywhere..."   
  
"I do," he murmured.   
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Feel sore somewhere." His eyes widened. "Oh bloody hell. We  _didn't._ "   
  
America blinked in confusion. "Um, didn't... what?"   
  
England was about to reply when the door of their cell clicked open and an officer entered. "Arthur Kirkland and Alfred F. Jones, your bail has been paid."   
  
"Who paid it?" England inquired.  
  
The officer shrugged and a wry smile crossed his face. "A Gordon Brown did. Imagine that, bloke has the same name as our Prime Minister. S'ppose it's not terribly uncommon though..."  
  
England looked positively mortified. His eyes grew wide and his mouth dropped. "My boss found out?"   
  
"Haha," America laughed weakly. "It's a good thing we're in England and not America right now..."  
  
"Oh quiet you," England retorted. "If my boss found out, I'll bet you ten quid that your boss already knows as well."   
  
He gaped. "N-n-o way. Dammit England this is all your faul---"  
  
" _Aflred_ ," England stressed, pointedly reminding him to use their human names in front of the officer. Generally America had no problem remembering, but if his mind was even half as muddled as England's was, it was no wonder he slipped. "I highly doubt it was only my fault."   
  
"We don't even remember what happened,  _Arthur_!" America shouted.  
  
The officer cleared his throat. "Want me to fill you in?"  
  
The pair nodded tentatively.  
  
He glanced at the clipboard he held. "You two were arrested at three a.m. this morning near Essex Road for indecent exposure."  
  
"What?" America queried. England's cheeks grew crimson, the officer's statement confirming what that one sore spot was telling him already.   
  
"You had sex in the middle of a pedestrian area," the officer stated dryly.  
  
"Christ's sake," England cursed. "How pissed were we?"  
  
America was speechless. His cheeks had grown red as a stoplight and when he opened his mouth, only spluttering noises came out. They'd gotten completely plastered, ripped each other's clothes off, and had sex in the middle of London. England's sweatervest was likely lying discarded in some alleyway, and now that he thought about it, America recalled that he  _had_  been wearing a belt when the two went out the night before. It was missing as well.   
  
Public sex, with another nation. He didn't think he'd have the nerve to face his boss for months. And if any other countries found out...  
  
"You two will find a ride waiting for you outside. I'll walk you out," the officer interrupted America's panicked consideration. He walked out of the cell, waiting for them to follow. "Oh and for some reason I'm not privy to, you won't be prosecuted."  
  
They didn't need to be prosecuted. The potential embarrassment was enough, America thought. He stood up and pulled England to his feet by his hands.   
  
"Next time  _I_  pick what we do on our date," America quipped.   
  
England flushed. "I hate to say it, but that's a very good idea."


	3. Bubbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America shows England how awesome bubble baths can be.

Bubbles, America had decided long ago, were one of mankind’s greatest inventions. Well, more specifically, soapy sudsy bubbles, because of course mankind hadn’t invented normal bubbles.   
  
He especially loved the foamy ones, the type that coated the surface of the water and rose up in little peaks whenever he took a bubble bath. The type that kind of just sat on top of your head when they landed there, that you could put your mouth near the top of the bubble mountains and blow at, watching as they floated up and landed across the tub.   
  
England called him childish for it, but that was just England. He liked to berate him for his ‘right silliness’ and scowl, but often when America turned away he’d see England’s expression transform into a fond smile out of his peripheral vision.   
  
Right now was one of those times. America’s bathtub was really amazing. He’d had a jacuzzi style tub installed the autumn before, because he thought, he deserved to afford himself some luxuries from time to time (heroes needed to be able to relax), and a huge, awesome bathtub with jets and high tech temperature control was definitely that.   
  
Another bonus, not listed in the store when he’d ordered it, but definitely one of the reasons he’d decided upon it, was how easily two people could fit inside.   
  
It hadn’t taken that much to coax England to bathe with him in his new tub the first time. They’d showered together many times; sharing kisses and much more and rubbing slick, wet hands across each other’s forms. They’d bathed together as well, albeit in smaller tubs. By now America and England, on America’s insistence, shared a bath almost every time England visited his Washington D.C. home.   
  
Especially in the freezing winter, which it now was. America had filled up the bathtub to the absolute brim with bubbles, and England muttered a “bloody hell, you’re going to flood the room,” when he saw it. America just chuckled and stepped into the tub, pulling England in after and planting a quick kiss on his wind-chapped lips.   
  
And now they were both soaking wet, and America was blowing bubbles toward England, which caused him to sputter and grumble and America to laugh. And then England would do it right back, and before long, they were pelting handfuls of the foam at each other, and one even landed rather comedically right over England’s eyebrows. America kissed it off, coming away with a foam mustache in the process.   
  
England, who had been  _attempting_  to act as if he weren’t enjoying their antics, let out a loud laugh at it, and America blushed and was about to retort. Instead he smiled; mischief clear in his expression.   
  
He wiped the mustache off with the back of his forearm and leaned forward, swiftly wrapping his arms around England and tackling him into the water. England flailed, but then relented as America’s lips crashed against his, and they both came up for air and continued kissing, their tongues darting into each other’s mouths and their breath intermingling. Bubbles popped and foam dispersed into plain old soapy water as they pressed against each other, and once they pulled apart (who knew how long it was? Minutes? America had no idea, although his fingers were quite a bit more wrinkled), England gave him one of those sweet half smiles. Arm swung around America’s shoulder, he leaned forward and kissed a dollop of foam off his nose.   
  
America grinned, no…  _smirked_. “Still think bubbles are just for kids, England?”   
  
England huffed and kissed him again. 


	4. Texting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for a meme on tumblr. Requester was anonymous, so I'm not sure who it was for!

Alfred sighed, leaning forward to rest his forehead on the cool glass of the window. He knew that the driver couldn’t help it because of the weather, but this cab ride was taking far too long, and he was growing more irritated by the moment. He pulled his face away from the car window and went back to the game on his phone, attempting to drown out the off-pitch humming emanating from the man in the driver’s seat of the car. 

_Almost there_ , he told himself as he glanced out across the grey, sleeting London sky. A ding from his phone interrupted him, and he glanced down at the glowing text:

_Hurry up! The airport’s not that far away._

**Sorry, ur crappy weather is slowing me down!!**

_Shut up. Anyway, I made dinner and it’s going to get cold so you’d best be here soon!_

America groaned and slid down in his chair, but then he grinned, stifling a deep chuckle. 

**Awesome. Bad weather** _**and**   _ **bad food!**

He pushed send and then paused before sending another quick text:

**…** ♥♥♥

He could imagine England’s reaction, and his smile widened. He couldn’t  _wait_  to see it in person.


End file.
